


one equal temper of heroic hearts

by celebros



Series: that which we are, we are [4]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (they're going to come on already and then they're going to come a lot), Anal Sex, Background Pavel Chekov/Hikaru Sulu - Freeform, Background/implied Nyota/Scotty, COME ON ALREADY, Crew as Family, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Finally the smut, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Jim wants to do it right though, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spock is amenable to your suggestions, Supportive Crew, Switch Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebros/pseuds/celebros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally back on their ship, back on the mend, and back where they belong, Jim and Spock are ready to start exploring their budding relationship -- and to admit that's what it is. Spock is all for diving in. Jim wants to do it right and savor every one of their firsts -- and every last minute.</p>
<p>The fourth (and final) (and finally smutty) part of "that which we are, we are".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one: prelude

**Author's Note:**

> For new readers, it'll probably help to read at least part three of this series -- that'll give you the immediate background.
> 
> Part one, "though much is taken, much abides," took place during the two weeks that Jim was unconscious after his "death" in Star Trek: Into Darkness. Lots of meldy goodness and angst and crew time. Spock's POV.
> 
> Part two, "that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven," uses both Jim's and Spock's POVs and covers a few weeks following as Jim struggles to catch up emotionally, Spock and Nyota try to figure out if their relationship is going to work (spoiler alert: it's not), and the whole crew tries to figure out their place in Jim's recovery.
> 
> Part three, "that which we are, we are," also from both points of view, covers the rest of their time grounded and involves stories about Pike, mind melds, tons and tons of mutual pining, the Riverside farmhouse, and a weekend retreat with the senior crew. Oh, and some smoldering gazes and hand-holding.

 

The night before launch, Spock receives a comm from Jim at 2230: _You want to come up tonight?_

 

_I understood the beam-ups were not to begin until 0700. You are already on board?_

 

_Yup. Handed off the keys to my apartment this morning. I thought I’d like a night on the ship alone, but it’s big and empty. Maybe I’ll just beam back down. I’d ask if I could crash on your couch, but I’m pretty sure it’s already up here, right?_

 

_Affirmative. All of my personal effects have been transferred. I have no compelling reason to stay. The transporter is operational?_

 

_Yeah, I’ll throw it back on, if you want to come. No pressure, though._

 

_I will be there within the hour. Where will I find you?_

 

_I’m just wandering. You can ask the computer where I am._

 

He beams up from the pad at Headquarters forty-six minutes later, stows his hygiene gear, his PADD, his sleepwear for the night, and his uniform for the morning in his quarters, and asks the computer for the location of the captain.

 

“Captain Kirk is in Engineering,” the computer answers in its cool, feminine voice.

 

The Engineering bay is dark but for the red and blue lights, splayed across the floor from the equipment. Spock moves through slowly, eyeing the dark consoles as if Jim will be attending one of them, but ultimately he knows where he will find his captain.

 

Jim is sitting on the floor with his back to the glass door. Spock breathes steadily and evenly, with effort, and moves to take a seat alongside him, cross-legged.

 

“I realized that I can’t be afraid of it,” Jim says quietly, by way of greeting. “So I’ve been spending time down here as much as I can, over the last couple weeks. Only when no one’s around, of course. People might talk.”

 

“A sound decision, although I should hope such a precaution is unnecessary. It seems perfectly logical to seek out a place with which you have such a powerful association, and thereby to strip it of any power it may have over you.”

 

“It doesn’t have any power over me,” Jim says. “Only _I_ have power over me.”

 

“A realization many humans never make,” Spock answers after a moment. “I admit even I have struggled with it at times. Do you believe your efforts to be succeeding?”

 

Jim looks at him, his blue eyes strangely blank.

 

“Are you still afraid?” Spock asks.

 

“Yes,” Jim says quietly. “Less so, but still. Afraid enough.” And he leans his head against Spock’s shoulder as he had on the shuttle three days earlier. His breathing grows slower, more even.

 

“Allow me to guide you to your quarters,” Spock says. “To sleep.”

 

“No,” Jim whispers. “I want to stay right here.” And he slides one arm underneath Spock’s own until they are resting against each other bicep to wrist, intertwining their fingers. His other hand comes across to grasp Spock’s bicep, holding him still as if afraid he will move away. “Can I…” he begins, and then, “Is this okay?”

 

“Yes, Jim,” Spock says, tightening his own fingers, and then there is a long quiet. Around them, behind them, beneath them, the ship hums. Blue lights blink from around the room; fans whir softly; and eventually Jim whispers again.

 

“It’s ours,” he says. “All of this, everything we want, it’s ours.” And Spock is _not_ afraid: [he turns his head and presses his mouth into Jim’s hair](http://www.niadraws.com/post/120274494225), breathing in his scent.

 

Jim begins to describe the things they’ll see: distant nebulae, scientific curiosities, unexplored continents, unexplained phenomena. And Spock can see it, in his mind’s eye. He can believe in the things Jim describes, the mysteries and marvels, but all he can think is, _I want to stay right here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fanart](http://www.niadraws.com/post/120274494225) by the lovely [Wintermane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintermane/)! She is incredible and leaves me a blubbering mess with everything she does.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys. This is happening again, and I'm so sorry it's taken so long. Thank you for sticking around. It means a lot.
> 
> As a reward, I present you with this absolute beauty: my first ever fanart! Go back and read the last few paragraphs of the last chapter before you click on this, just to get an idea of how absolutely perfectly Wintermane captured this...
> 
> Then LOOKY HERE: http://www.niadraws.com/post/120274494225

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, since the last time I updated, I've:  
> * gone on a three-week European honeymoon  
> * received a major but long-awaited medical diagnosis YAY, and  
> * written a 21K-word story about Legolas and Gimli in their last years in Middle Earth COME ON (but sorry but really not too sorry)  
> * gotten a new job in a totally different field (from writer/editor to data analyst! what?!)  
> * (and so had to learn relational algebra and SQL and R programming and Tableau and command-line interface...)  
> * (and probability and statistics and IDEFK what else ... all in the last six weeks)
> 
> I just want to make sure you know that I DON'T usually go months and months between chapters.
> 
> Also, I know I implied that this chapter would be smutty, but it's not to the Together Stuff yet. Next chapter will have Stuff.

 

 

 

two.

 

Jim has gotten very good at being a captain.

 

He’s good at having dinner with crew and paying attention to everyone equally, and keeping everybody busy so they aren’t bored on the trek out toward unexplored territory. At turning his reports in to the Admiralty on time so that he doesn’t make extra work for anyone, and not letting Bones guess that there’s more to his attitude change than coming back from the dead.

 

He’s good at keeping on his professional face. He’s good at not grabbing Spock’s hand when they’re walking side by side in the corridor, and he’s good at not staring when Spock is standing bent over a console, and he’s good at not sending innuendos in his text comms and self-censoring his private log.

 

He’s good at all those things, but he is goddamned _fantastic_ at jerking off in the shower, first an almost-casual motion, smooth and practiced, and then when he’s close something frenzied and frantic, and he’s pretending it’s his First Officer’s cool, slim fingers wrapped around his cock, and he’s perfected the art of _not_ moaning a name when he throws his head back, teeth clenching, and comes in a messy arc across the shower wall.

 

He’s not good at what comes after that. What comes after is a massive wave of bad: it’s fear and self-loathing bundled up with uncertainty and guilt. He’s never felt bad about his extensive mental portfolio of fantasy fodder before, because if there’s one thing Jim Kirk has always believed in, it’s not being judged for your kinks.

 

(Maybe part of it is that he’s not sure if the fantasy is necessary. If he wasn’t such a coward, maybe he’d be living the reality.)

 

He’s really good at quashing that thought down as soon as it comes up. He knows Spock has some kind of feelings for him, and they’ve held hands, even cuddled a bit. But he’s never sensed active arousal in those moments—not for lack of keeping an eye out, mind.

 

Anyway. He’s in a position of power, and Spock has been looking after him for the past year, caring for him and tending to him in ways Jim’s never put up with from anyone but Bones (and never even that without a healthy dose of complaining). He tries to tell himself that maybe Spock’s just sensed Jim’s own attraction, and attempted to mirror it as a form of comfort. He’s not going to push anything.

 

_Right, that’s a good idea,_ he thinks bitterly, sliding out of the shower once everything is clean and wrapping a towel around his waist. _Because Spock is_ so _likely to make the first move._

 

So, maybe he’s _not_ really good at quashing that thought down.

 

They’ve been flying for two weeks. Two weeks since Spock pressed his face into Jim’s hair and inhaled, which was the straw that broke Jim’s back, maybe. But there had been a lot of damn straws before that, and there have been a few since, too—a touch on his shoulder as Spock hands him a PADD, a lingering glance after Jim had run a hand through his hair distractedly and set it all up on end, a delicious tension when they’re alone in the turbolift together. Beyond that, there hasn’t been time for much. The workload will calm down once they’re in deep space. It has to, or all starship captains would end up institutionalized.

 

Jim brushes his teeth, slips on boxers and a soft cotton tee he’d found at the farmhouse just big enough to still fit him, and sits on the edge of his bed. He has a really bad idea. He has several, but he’s only really considering one of them.

 

He text-comms Hikaru from his private account: _So why don’t you tell me about this situation we apparently have in common._

 

Hikaru comms back about twenty seconds later, _fuck off I’m not talking about that on comms_ and then about ten seconds after that, _arboretum’s all ours, if you want to come down_.

 

It’s late enough that the corridors are all but empty, and the crewmen he passes are tired-eyed until they see him, straightening and smiling. Jim’s donned his tunic again, but it’s over the soft sleep shirt he’d put on, so he’s not exactly cutting the most captainly figure. But they brighten at the sight of him, and it seems like their reaction to his presence is more than just a formality. He does it best to return that favor, and to look at their faces as he does.

 

Hikaru’s sitting on one of the wide, squat steps that wind into the arboretum, his back to the door, but he looks up when Jim enters and offers a wry expression in greeting. Jim plops down beside him, waits a moment, and then looks over with his brow raised. Hikaru laughs.

 

“He’s rubbing off on you,” he says.

 

“Not in any of the fun ways,” Jim answers on autopilot, and then twists his lip because this is the closest he’s gotten to admitting his mountain-sized crush to anyone but Bones. “Is it obvious to everyone?”

 

“Oh no, no,” Hikaru says quickly, holding up both hands, “I’m just smart. And friends with Nyota, who saw it coming a mile away, but that was really secondary.”

 

“Honestly,” Jim says, “when I needled you about Pavel, in Riverside, I was half-joking.”

 

“ _Everyone_ is half-joking about us, which makes it that much worse. But it’s not… it’s not the same as you guys. I probably shouldn’t have compared it.”

 

“Okaaaaaayyyy,” Jim says, “I need a little more to go on than that.”

 

“I’m just fending him off,” he says after a moment, and his voice is bitter. “It’s not his fault. He’s practically a kid. He has no idea, he’s just playing, and I’m…”

 

“Not.”

 

“No.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“It’s not like there’s anything else that I can do. He doesn’t have any experience with relationships, with _anything_ , so he’s totally oblivious to the fact that I’m not interested in fooling around.” He buries his face in his hands for a moment, shakes his head, and looks up again, his face painfully earnest. “I just can’t… Jim, he’s my _best friend_.”

 

Jim offers a wry look in response, and Hikaru laughs again. “Oh right,” he says, “same boat.”

 

“It is the shittiest vessel I’ve ever commanded,” Jim says.

 

“I don’t know,” Hikaru answers, “it seems to be holding up pretty well. So are you going to tell me about you guys at all, or do I have to keep imagining how awkward that is?”

 

“It’s actually not,” Jim says. “I mean, sexually frustrating, yes. Awkward… not so much. I think this might end up being status quo, which is kind of painful to think about over a five-year stretch, but he seems pretty okay with it, so I don’t want to rock that boat we were talking about. We’re comfortable around each other. Even if all I get is searing gazes and piercing honesty and the occasional non-platonic gesture, I’d rather have that than nothing.”

 

“I just can’t imagine what his searing gazes look like.”

 

“Well, I can’t imagine Pavel trying to get in anyone’s pants, so we’re still even. I would have guessed him for going after blonde Russian girls, so he’s already got me surprised.”

 

“Well, he goes for the ladies too. We both do. He’ll chase anything, though.”

 

“Man after my own heart.”

 

Jim kicks at the stone step, which feels weird after a week of walking on carpet and metal, and looks back over at Hikaru when he doesn’t say anything more. “I feel like we should have a game plan,” he says, “or like, a competition. That’s how I used to be. But I’m not—I can’t be that person anymore.” He pauses. “You know that. I don’t have to tell you that.” Hikaru’s mouth twitches into what might be a grimace. “What?”

 

“I just don’t know what to _do_ , Jim. As much as I don’t want to give in, I don’t want to shut him down, either. And I don’t want to scare him off. And beyond those options, I don’t see much other than…” He gestures vaguely. “This. Ignoring it, or laughing it off, and being best friends the rest of the time.” He sighs. “I guess it’s not that bad.”

 

“Right,” Jim says, although he’s not totally convinced. “And I’m not going to pressure anything. I can’t.”

 

“I don’t know,” Hikaru says, his brows furrowed a little. “You both have good reasons right now to be waiting for the other to make a move. _One_ of you is going to need to put it all out on the line, and the longer you wait to find out which way it’s going to go, the more painful it’ll be.”

 

“Why do I get the sense you aren’t going to follow the advice you just gave me?”

 

“Oh, I’m not. I’ll keep pretending it’s a joke like everybody else does. You’re a braver man than I am—not that there was every any doubt about that.”

 

“Hey,” Jim says, pitching his tone toward comfort and lifting a hand to rest it on Sulu’s shoulder, “any time you’re done needlessly beating the shit out of yourself, you know you can come spar with me and I’ll do it for you.”

 

Hikaru’s lips twist into a smile, and he looks around at the greenery and says, “It’s nice in here, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Jim agrees. “Was this one of Scotty’s wild ideas? Or did the brass send this down as a new standard-issue feature for long-range missions? It’s smart.”

 

“It was my idea, actually,” Sulu says. “And my responsibility, although I’ve already got a posse of ensigns begging to help.”

 

“Sign me up.”

 

“You’ve got enough on your plate.”

 

“Well, sign me up and I won’t be afraid to foist my duties off on someone else if I have to.”

 

“That’s my captain,” Hikaru says, and checks his chrono. “I’m going to bed. Great awkward talk, Jim. Glad we had this.”

 

“Yeah, anytime,” Jim says, and stretches his neck from side to side. “Night.”

 

Hikaru leaves, and Jim sits on the steps amid the green things for a few minutes more. It won’t be so bad, if this is what it’ll be like. If he can separate being the captain from being a friend. If sometimes he can put aside the pips on his collar, even if it means losing a little sleep.

 

***

 

They get their first formal mission the next day. The ping from Archer is pre-recorded, just a briefing and a quick, “hope you’re well,” but that’s okay because the mission is pretty straightforward: go to New Vulcan. It’s a two-day cruise, but they’re meeting an ambassador halfway there to ferry her home. As for the rest of the crew, most of them have a lot to prepare before arrival. The first day passes in a whirlwind of approvals.

 

Ostensibly, they’re heading there so the Engineering crew can help the New Vulcan Science Academy workshop an idea about efficient water recycling—a technology they’ll both be able to use. Then HQ’s research branch has gotten several of the Vulcan researchers to offer their services amending and approving the research _Enterprise_ will be doing. It’ll be good to get external confirmation that their longitudinal studies are set up properly.

 

But Jim suspects that at its heart, this mission is just Archer’s way of pandering. On the other hand, maybe they’ve earned that. Or maybe they’re _about_ to earn it—depending on their next heading, it could be a span of months or more before the next time they encounter a friendly Federation face.

 

The following day, he’s eyeing their Vulcan emissary speculatively, and she’s studying the control consoles of their new state-of-the-art astrometrics lab with a slight frown. _Well,_ he amends to himself. _“Friendly” might be stretching it._

 

But once he’s finished his diplomatic duty, there will be little left for him to do until they’re back aboard the ship. Scotty and Pavel are heading up the engineering; Hikaru and Nyota and Bones and Carol all have research to be checked. But Jim has opted to avoid heading a five-year study – he pitched some ideas, but left them in the database, free for the taking. His department heads all demur when he asks if any of them have discovered supply deficits. The ship will be manned by junior officers while in orbit. Senior crew are instructed to spend time on the planet. No one has to tell Jim why: here more than anywhere, it is important for them to be seen.

 

He triple-checks his schedule with the resource officer, then schedules an evening with Ambassador Selek.

 

They haven’t met in person since the day of the ceremony after the _Narada_ , when Jim was formally given command. They haven’t had a vid chat in months. But when he sends a text-only comm, the response is so simple as to be intimate: _I shall have the tea on and ready for you._

 

***

 

It isn’t hyperbolic. After a long day walking the city in the stifling heat, Jim finds himself outside the Ambassador’s door. He knocks, and the elder Spock says, “One moment,” and when he opens the door, the first thing Jim sees is a steaming teapot on the small table in the living area.

 

“Come in,” the old man says warmly. “It is pleasing to see you, old friend.”

 

“You too, Spock,” Jim says. “Turn those cooling fans off. I know full well they’re for my comfort, not yours, and I won’t have it.”

 

“I have set the temperature as I please,” Spock says. His voice is dry with a humor so rich that it surprises Jim again. They sit together on an extra-firm sofa, and cups and saucers come from a shelf beneath the surface of the table. Spock tilts his head toward Jim to confide, “The fans were difficult to procure. I refuse to let my efforts be in vain.”

 

“I know what that is,” Jim says, smiling crookedly and shaking his head. “Turning it around so that if I ask again, then _I_ look like an asshole.”

 

“I have always found it an effective means of convincing you to cease arguing with me. If it is not so, I will simply exercise my privilege as your host to insist. It is, by the way, a unique position for me.”

 

“What, hosting?”

 

“Indeed. For much of my early life, my permanent residence was in Shi’Kahr, and even my most resilient companions were not eager to visit. Humans found Vulcan fairly inhospitable. Did you have a chance to visit, in this timeline?”

 

Jim imagines falling toward the surface of the planet. Never touching it. “No,” he says, his mouth dry, and Spock immediately bends to pour the tea. “I wish I had.”

 

“You were no exception, unfortunately. You loathed Vulcan, and you found many of our customs rather barbaric.”

 

“I don’t –” He licks his lips, but there’s nothing really to say.

 

“You are not him,” Spock says gently. “I know. And yet – in your presence, it is difficult not to think of you as a time-traveler of some sort. Simply a version of him who has yet to become the man I knew. You are so alike.” Jim can _feel_ a tension, a forced stillness. Spock wants to reach out and touch his face. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does.

 

“It’s okay,” Jim says. “I can’t imagine if our places were reversed. You can—” He reaches up and presses his fingers to his own face, and Spock’s face flashes with surprise. He reaches out a strong but gnarled knuckle and brushes it across Jim’s cheek.

 

“It is true,” he says, and his voice seems strained. “You cannot imagine. I cannot make anyone understand. There are so few to whom my secret has been entrusted. You few, so young. A number of the elders, including my father and one of the councilors. But there is no way to express…” He lifts his hand again, but lets it fall before it touches Jim’s face.

 

“That, though, I do know a little about,” Jim says. “Not that specifically, obviously, just… The feeling of having experienced something that no one else has.”

 

Spock sips his tea and does not meet Jim’s eyes.

 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he asks the wizened man. “In the other universe.”

 

“It was,” he answers quietly, folding his hands and leaning forward so that his forearms rest on his knees.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“We were already old men, when it happened,” Spock says. “My Jim sacrificed everything to get me back. I am glad it did not come to that with the pair of you.”

 

“I’m glad it was me,” Jim says. “I don’t know how I could have stood it. I don’t know… what I would have done.”

 

“In my time, you did your best,” Spock says. “Your very best. But the cost was too great. I will say no more about that.”

 

Jim imagines what might be so terrible that Spock would say such a thing. He imagines the _Enterprise_ burning, bodies falling through her gut as she tilts drunkenly through the atmosphere, yet more ripped out into the warp tunnel, thousands of people buried beneath the rubble of San Francisco, and he wants to say, _The cost was already too great,_ but the elder Spock already knows all of this and still judges this secret on a different scale. He’s right. Jim doesn’t want to know.

 

“I have not heard from my young counterpart in some weeks,” the Ambassador says smoothly. “Tell me how these last weeks have gone for you both. I recall well how hectic life can be before launch.”

 

“Yeah, it’s been hard,” Jim answers, and he babbles for a while about the ship’s improvements. Then he says, “It would have been worse if we hadn’t done the weekend at the farm, though,” and something sparks in the old man’s eyes.

 

“You visited Iowa together?” he asks, and Jim has a moment of _oh man_. Either they really haven’t talked in a long time, or Spock had left that out deliberately.

 

“We had a weekend retreat for the senior crew,” Jim says. “Spock came out the week before and helped me get it habitable. It was really nice. We both needed the getaway, and there’s something about working with your hands.”

 

“A most excellent idea,” Spock says. “But if you will allow an old man his curiosity, does your family not live there?”

 

“Oh, no,” Jim says. “Mom’s on DS1, has been for years, and Sam lives on one of the outer colonies.”

 

“Ah,” Spock says, and sips at his tea.

 

“You knew my mom, in your time?”

 

“In my reality,” Spock corrects gently. “Yes. We exchanged letters, and at times when we were planetside, she would take me to dinner while Jim was busy in meetings.”

 

Jim looks down. He came here determined not to ask about the nature of Spock’s relationship with his own counterpart, but he doesn’t need to ask now. Maybe he didn’t ever really need to ask. Maybe he should have known the moment he saw the old man in the cave, saw the way he looked at Jim with no surprise. As if he had known Jim would come.

 

So instead of pressing that point, he says, “Tell me about your life here,” and Spock’s face relaxes almost imperceptibly. He talks about the noise of building, constant building; the flares of emotion at meetings and gatherings; the temperature fluctuations and ways that they are adapting to this.

 

He talks for some time about the unfamiliar animals. “Did you know that there are only twelve known specimens of Vulcan-native animal species remaining? Two domesticated _sehlats_ , both female. A _shavokh_ , a bird of prey—it was illegal to bring them off-planet, but this one was trained and sold to a small human colony as a hunting animal. They sent word of it to us only days after the destruction. A trade ship that left Vulcan less than a day before found several _hayalit_ in its cargo: we have them here now, but they have not reproduced, and their lifespans are not long. And six _ch'kariya_ , who have formed mated pairs. My mother held an irrational loathing of _ch'kariya_. We had sonic screening, but she frequently insisted that they were burrowing under and destroying her garden.” But he smiles now, and it is so human that Jim’s heart breaks. Six _ch'kariya_ , and no Amanda Grayson.

 

“Of course, you have been no stranger to rebuilding,” Spock says, and there they are again.

 

They’re silent for a moment, and then Jim says. “It’s been good. We’ve been… good. I won’t deny it’s been hard. It’s been hard as hell. But I’m a better person for it. Breaking down and rebuilding, over and over again, you know…”

 

“I do know,” Spock says. “As does my counterpart, I am certain.”

 

And it keeps coming back to this. Jim finds that in some part of his mind, he has been rehearsing what he’s about to say. He doesn’t like scripting himself, but this has to be said.

 

“Look,” he says, “I want to… say something to you. Let’s stop dissembling and be honest with each other, because we both deserve that much. Let’s get it out of the way.” He doesn’t even let himself take a deep breath before plunging on. “I know that my counterpart was more than your friend. I know you want that for Spock and I. And I don’t blame you for that. I want it too. I can’t deny that. But sometimes I feel like – without meaning to, maybe – you’re sort of nudging me. Us. And I think maybe you don’t understand what we’ve already been through together.”

 

He pauses for a moment now, searching the old man’s face for signs: pain, denial, maybe that frustrating amusement. Spock merely inclines his head, a clear invitation to continue.

 

“I mean, some of it you know. He lost his planet, his mother, and we found the man responsible and I was at his side when we watched that man die. I was killed. He found the man responsible on his own and helped bring me back. But then he took me into his home. Made my health his everyday focus when things were bad. Taught me to meditate. Came with me to Iowa and kept me sane out there. Melded with me to show me Pike’s last message for me, and didn’t feel a damn _shred_ of regret or envy or anger that this man, one of his deepest friends, spent his last moments passing on a message of love and comfort for _me_. He’s given me my life, Spock. He’s given me everything in it that’s worth having. I owe him _everything_.” Jim is aware that his voice is raw now, coursing with emotion, but he can’t stop there. “How could I possibly ask him to give me more?”

 

Spock looks directly at him when he answers, and the words nearly break him. “I see you, Jim,” he says gently. “And if we are to be honest with each other, you must finish this thought truly. You must tell me the last part of this, the words you have not spoken.”

 

Jim’s skin chills: now that it has been invoked, he knows what Spock is talking about, but it’s a thought he’d kept secret even from himself until now. “There’s no hiding from you,” he says numbly.

 

“No. Not in this matter.” Spock pauses, and when he continues, his voice is less gentle. “You must say it, Jim. You know it is not logical, but keeping it secret has kept it safe from logic. Say it. Let yourself admit it, so that you can be rid of it.”

 

It’s easier said than done.

 

***

 

When Spock finally finds the dwelling, there is silence within, but before he has summoned the resolve to raise his hand to knock, he hears a familiar voice from within, choked with emotion.

 

“Why?” Jim says, and the unruly part of Spock’s brain seems to awaken: he curses inwardly. Immediately the calm he had developed for this meeting with his counterpart has dissolved. But Jim is still talking, and Spock cannot help but hear: “Why would he give me so much? Why would he want more? And I know, you’re right, I know it’s illogical, I know he does, we’ve neither of us been subtle. But I can’t help but be afraid. It doesn’t make sense to me why he would have any interest. He knows what I am, at my worse. I’m a wreck, a fuckup, I’m a disaster waiting to happen, already happening.”

 

Spock’s arm tightens around the tin at his side and attempts to calm his warring emotions. Everything within him is saying _wrong, wrong_. Wrong that Jim should be talking about _this_ with Spock’s counterpart. Wrong that Spock is listening: that he has not already made a choice to knock, or to leave and return later. Wrong that he wants to continue listening.

 

“And what is he?” Spock’s elder self asks.

 

After another moment of silence, Jim offers a stifled laugh. “Stop fishing for compliments, old man,” he says, and Spock feels blood rush to his face.

 

“Jim, I am not joking. He is no more capable of perfection than you.”

 

“But I’m,” Jim breathes, an edge to his voice. “Do you not get this? Your Jim—he had so much. A real family, a real childhood. His father. His mentors. He didn’t die when he was my age, you’ve made that clear. He—Spock, I would love to be the man you think I am, but I’m broken in so many ways.”

 

“I cannot tell you what to do, and Jim, I never would. But while I will not deny that it is not always easy for me to separate you from _my_ Jim, you must know that by now I have learned your merits from _you_. I felt your mind. We have spoken and written to one another frankly. I have heard the way others speak of you. Jim, you are less different from him than you believe. You are less broken than you believe.”

 

“But,” Jim croaks, “I still. How could I ask? After everything he’s given?”

 

“Should you choose to pursue a relationship with my counterpart, you would not be asking an indulgence. You would be _offering_. You have as much to give as he; he has as much to gain as you. This I promise.”

 

Spock’s throat is dry, his face hot, and it is more than just the climate. But he is not embarrassed, and he is not afraid or angry. He is… a cinder. Something smoldering gently and waiting for kindling, and perhaps it is time to stop waiting.

 

He readjusts the tin of Vulcan spice tea in his arms, then turns and moves quietly away. There will be time later to see his elder counterpart, but he is not sure, now, what he will say.

 

It should be he who offers these reassurances to his captain. It doesn’t help that, in a certain sense, it _is_.

 

***

 

In the soft calm of the hut, Jim and the elder Spock are quiet for a while. Then Spock reaches up again and touches his face: this time with his fingerpads instead of his knuckles, pressing gently as if passing something on. He looks away, and stands with the teapot, moving carefully to the kitchen and setting it on the uneven countertop. When he looks back at Jim, his eyes are piercing. “One more thing,” he says, and his voice, too, has sharpened. “Do not strip Spock of the ability to make his own choice. You doubt if you are good enough for him? Let him be the judge of what he desires. If he does not think it worthwhile, he will say so.”

 

Jim scrubs at his face, but finds it dry. “Okay,” he says.

 

“In your own time, Jim,” Spock answers. “Let this relieve your burden, not add to it.”

 

“Thank you,” Jim whispers.

 

And the old man’s face softens once more. “Now,” he says, “tell me about your ship.” And that, at least, is easy.


	3. three.

 

three.

 

The day they are due to leave New Vulcan, Spock finds Jim atop a mountain.

 

In truth, he would not have found the captain at all had he not used the ship’s systems to remotely track Jim’s comm signal. He is far from the main settlement, and when Spock finds him he is deep in meditation. His face is turned slightly upwards (to open his airway; Spock had taught him this), his shoulders wide (confident; vulnerable; full), his legs folded carefully beneath him (grounded without distraction). Spock kneels a few paces away and joins him wordlessly. At this altitude, there is a slight breeze, countering the heat of direct sun, and breathing is easy.

 

Spock does not expect to sink into a full and restful meditative state—expects a degree of preoccupation—but then he finds himself rising back to the world after eight-two minutes, his mind clearer and his body renewed.

 

Jim’s eyes are still closed, but he is smiling now. His rate of breath indicates that he had exited his own meditative state some time ago, but he shows no outward signs of restlessness. Spock moves to sit directly before him, and Jim inhales deeply.

 

“Thank you,” he says, and opens his eyes. “For teaching me. It keeps getting easier, and it helps so much. I almost don’t know how I lived without it.”

 

“You are most welcome.”

 

“Is it what you expected? The planet?”

 

“No. It is…” _So quiet_ is what he thinks, _so empty, so restless and sad._ He does not say so, but nor does he mask his dissatisfaction. “It is inadequate. It is fortuitous that I chose as I did: I am not certain I could have lived here.” This is what honesty feels like. And instead of looking sad or stricken, Jim just nods.

 

“Yeah. It’s… they’re obviously working really hard to make something of it, but it’s not here yet. Who knows if it ever will be.”

 

“Not, I think, for me,” Spock says. “And you, Jim? What have you thought of your stay?”

 

“It’s a good reminder of why we’re out here in the first place. Newness, discovery. I…” He hesitates, and Spock wonders if he will mention the ambassador, but instead Jim looks at him softly and says, “I needed to see. To remember: sometimes you build back better. But sometimes you just pull together what you can.”

 

Spock nods. “Do you recall the grounding meditation I shared with you? The image of standing atop Mount Seleya?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“It has been fading. So I believe from now on I shall use this instead.” He gestures around with a glance, taking in the rich azure sky, the salt sand and crumbling soft stone.

 

“No,” Jim says softly. “Please—you can’t give up your mountain. You can’t let that be taken from you, too. Share it with me. I’ll keep it, I’ll help you remember.”

 

“No,” he answers. “It is just as you have said: sometimes you must accept what is before you.” Jim makes a soft sound at the back of his throat and folds himself forward, leaning against Spock, his head against Spock’s right shoulder, grasping his left forearm with one hand.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes, and Spock reaches over with his own right hand and prises Jim’s away from his arm. Then he cradles it. With his left hand, he traces a light line across Jim’s palm.

 

“I am not,” he says. “Like you, there are things I have gained even in losing.” And he speaks the next slowly, looking Jim in the eyes, impressing this upon him. “Previously, I could only ever imagine myself atop the mountain. In this new vision, I have you beside me.”

 

“Yes,” Jim whispers, and Spock folds Jim’s hand onto itself, but he cannot withdraw his own hands. “Yes. Right here. Spock.” And he gasps as Spock’s fingers clench around his own: “I’m… I’m here. For whatever you want, and as long as you want.”

 

And this is more than he expected. Spock’s heart seems to expand in his chest, because Jim _understands_ , and it is almost unbearable, the emotion he is experiencing, the intensity of feeling, the sight of the raw want in Jim’s eyes.

 

“Are we talking about this?” Jim asks. “Can we—oh, fuck, _Spock_ , I don’t—” He pulls his hand away and clutches to Spock’s shoulders, embracing him. Spock puts his hands on Jim’s back, but it is not enough. He pulls him closer, clutches at him too, like a human child, as if he believes that Jim will slip away and be lost if he does not hold tightly enough.

 

Jim lets out a throaty laugh. “You’re shaking,” he whispers. “Do you… Do you want… something? It’s okay if you don’t. I don’t want—I mean, I don’t… need anything, I just—you—we can talk about this, we can—”

 

Spock had not known that he was afraid—how could he have failed to know?—but it is gone now, that fear, replaced by a lightness so large it burns, his chest, his lungs, he can scarcely breathe but Jim—Jim is pulling back, his hands reaching up to cradle Spock’s cheeks. “It’s all right, Spock,” he says. He is smiling, both wide and gentle. “Whatever it is, we’re here. I’m here. It’s all right. We don’t have to figure it all out at once. Please, say something, if you can.”

 

“No,” Spock says, and leans forward. His hands frame Jim’s face, and he pulls it close to his. Their lips meet, soft and deliberate, and Spock’s hands move on Jim’s jaw, pulling forward and then stroking back and pulling forward again as if to bring them even closer. Jim’s cheeks—he has felt them before, the stubble that rises so quickly after he has shaved; he uses old-fashioned razors; Spock has never asked why. Now the rough prickle is strange in a different way. It is coarse against his upper lip, the meat of his palms, fascinatingly unfamiliar. He has not imagined this.

 

When they separate, Jim moves very slowly, withdrawing enough to make eye contact. Then he folds their hands together, palm to palm. “Spock,” he whispers.

 

“Jim,” Spock says, and Jim’s face lights up. He grins, ducking his head as if embarrassed, and then looks up again quickly.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

“Hello,” Spock answers instinctively, and Jim seems to relax at his response. He has experienced this before, the greeting after a moment of intimacy, and he hypothesizes that it represents a sense of newness to one another, but he has never been certain. This time, however, it feels natural to respond in kind. Regardless, Jim is grinning at him in a way that is not new: it is soft and comfortable and very familiar.

 

“It’s a weird human way of diffusing tension. Awkwardness,” Jim offers, and Spock’s own tension is relieved in turn. He feels… relief. Jim has read his subtle cues, understood, and explained with no defensiveness or strangeness. “So,” Jim continues. “That… was good?”

 

“Are you uncertain?” Spock asks.

 

Jim laughs, and Spock wants to card his fingers through Jim’s hair, to kiss him again with the same sweetness, to bring his face back to awe and then back to laughter again. To drive away any uncertainty, because this is _good_.

 

“No,” he answers, and shifts to sit next to Spock, entangling their hands. It is… more than sufficient. Spock wants to explain in precise detail what this is – that which is more than _good_ and more than _sufficient_ , which defies the uncertainty that has defined them both for months. He opens his mouth, then closes it again and considers. Jim twists to face him.

 

“Are you biting your lip?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you bite your lip before. Is that... did I misunderstand?” He pulls back slightly, and Spock tightens his hand, resisting the withdrawal.

 

“I am finding it difficult to express myself,” Spock says. “But – no. You have not misunderstood.”

 

“Okay,” Jim says. “Okay, good. Well. We should probably talk about this.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“I’m actually not sure what to say.”

 

“Nor am I.”

 

“Maybe it’s best if we remind ourselves what it is we’re talking about.”

 

This is innuendo. Spock recognizes it, and feels satisfaction. He pulls his hand from Jim’s and does almost precisely as he had imagined: turns his head, slides his fingers into Jim’s hair, and this time Jim is the one to move in and touch their lips together, his body language a battle of eagerness and shyness. But after a moment he laughs against Spock’s mouth and opens the kiss into something fiercer. He lifts a hand as if to pull Spock closer, but then lets it fall against Spock’s side, tracing it down across his oblique muscles to his hip. His other hand clasps the back of Spock’s neck so that when they separate again, it serves as fulcrum, tilting their foreheads together as they breathe.

 

“I’m still not sure what to say,” Jim whispers. “Except that you are _really good_ at that.”

 

Spock allows himself another calming breath, and then answers softly. “There is some that must be said. Of duty: the ship must come first.”

 

“Of course,” Jim answers, his hands loosening so they can both sit upright again. “And it’s probably best we keep things between ourselves? At least until we—” He hesitates. “Until we’ve—tried this out for a bit?”

 

There is a silence. Spock recognizes it. “Hello,” he says.

 

Jim’s laugh is so wide and boisterous that Spock expects it to echo off the stones. “Is that not how it is done?” Spock asks, but it is mostly in jest. He had anticipated Jim’s response.

 

“Is that all it takes?” Jim teases. “A couple kisses and you start cracking jokes?”

 

“My inhibitions,” Spock admits, “are somewhat loosened. But humor aside: I agree with your sentiment. I would prefer to keep what is between us private, at least for the time being.”

 

“Okay,” Jim says. “Good talk. Now let’s—”

 

His comm badge chirps, and Jim groans loudly. “If we hadn’t just agreed ship first…” he murmurs, but taps his fingers against the badge. “Kirk here,” he says.

 

“Palmer here, Captain. The Vulcan elders are requesting your presence, sir. They’re ready to send us off whenever we’re ready to be sent.”

 

“Very good, Lieutenant. Mister Spock and I are atop—has this place been given a name yet, Mister Spock?”

 

“It remains unchristened,” Spock answers, enjoying the drop of Jim’s jaw at the words.

 

“On the mountain, in any case, Lieutenant,” Jim finishes somewhat lamely. “It’s at least two hours’ hike down.”

 

“If I may, Captain,” Spock interjects swiftly, “the terrain is much less forgiving for descent. Perhaps we had best allow _Enterprise_ to beam us up, and we can arrange the rendezvous time from the ship.”

 

“Good suggestion, Commander. Lieutenant, you heard him. That’ll be two to beam up.”

 

Jim taps his comm off, and then his fingers dart out to touch Spock’s, offering a shy, deliberate caress and retreating just before the transporter beam engulfs them.

 

Spock’s senses tingle for longer than usual after he steps off the transporter pad.

 

***

 

They look crisp and composed, Spock observes, playing back the security feed from the transporter room. All he can see is perhaps a hint of humor in the captain’s eye.

 

He is not unused to pretending not to feel. Neither of them are, surely.

 

In the adjacent room, the ‘fresher units connecting their suites, Jim’s sonic is on full blast. He cannot hear anything more without entering the room. Jim sometimes hums in the sonic, sometimes taps metal and tile in percussive rhythms, usually in the morning. He realizes he is seeking reassurance, a sign of normalcy. He dons his uniform shirt and makes his way to the bridge.

 

Nyota is not on duty, but Ensign Chekov is, bent over the console with one hand in his hair, grasping tight in frustration. “Ah, _nyet_ ,” he murmers, inaudible, most likely, to the other humans on board. 0718 acknowledges Spock with a widening of his eyes, a communication that all is well.

 

The ensign at the science station is looking up at Spock expectantly. “Report,” Spock says, and the ensign relaxes.

 

“No unusual activity from any of the solar bodies; signs of more tectonic activity in the lower hemisphere. Tectonic stability has been rated higher than Earthnorm, sir, so I ordered several sensor sweeps of the area over the past four hours. We haven’t found anything unusual.”

 

“A sensible precaution. The Captain and I are returning to the surface shortly to conclude ship’s business. Continue to monitor, and keep me informed should anything arise.” He pauses. “Thank you for your prudence and initiative, ensign.”

 

“Yes, sir,” the ensign says, straightening again, and Spock turns away. Chekov has lifted his head and is looking at him.

 

“Do you have a report as well, Ensign Chekov?” he asks.

 

“Ah, no, sir,” Chekov says, turning back to his console hastily. “That is to say, all normal, sir.”

 

“Very well,” Spock says, and lingers a moment before retreating.

 

He half-expects to encounter Jim in the corridor: Jim always visits the Bridge when he can, and surely will want to do so before they return planetside. When Jim does not appear, Spock makes his way to the mess hall.

 

Nyota is sitting at a table with a steaming beverage and a PADD, and her concentration is so intense that she does not notice Spock’s approach. He sits across from her but does not interrupt. Eventually, she looks up at him and smiles.

 

“Hi,” she says. “Have you already finished with the elders?”

 

“We have not met with them yet. Once the captain is prepared, we will beam down.”

 

“I’ve just been reading some of the feedback on my comms projects. It’s incredibly insightful – much more detailed than I was expecting, given the limited time the Vulcan teams had with our documentation. I’m glad for the constructive suggestions, of course, but it’s going to take some work to adjust if I want to implement it in time to get the longitudinal impact.”

 

“You have missed this,” Spock observes. “The professional interaction involved in academic work. I had not realized.”

 

“I’m not sure that I had, either,” Nyota admits. “But it’s refreshing, to have something you built torn down and made better. Without that, I think, I’ve been stagnating. And you know me. I’d never be content with that.”

 

“No,” Spock agrees, looking down at the table and contemplating that: the impossibility of a stagnant Nyota. She makes a small, bright sound, and he looks up at her again: she is staring at him. “What is it?”

 

“You smiled,” she says. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you smile like that – unconsciously, or nearly so. I…” She trails off and gathers herself — sets down the PADD, folds her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, I know this was something we’d talked about, in the past. The way that I overemphasize your positive emotional reactions and human traits, projecting some sort of quality onto them. I know it makes you uncomfortable, and I apologize. I promise I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m trying to improve.”

 

“Such formality,” Spock says. “Nyota, your apology is appreciated for the consideration it shows, but ultimately it is unnecessary. My objection was not to your response to my _emotional reactions_ : I have no wish to control your impulses. I took issue only with the sense that you expected and desired more of that emotionality from me.”

 

“Okay,” she answers hesitantly, and he lifts a hand to indicate a continuation.

 

“I wish for you to understand,” he says, “that even were you to persist in a behavior I found objectionable, _I_ would persist in maintaining our friendship. Do not fear that you will drive me away. You cannot.”

 

As her face lights up again, Spock feels the currents of his emotions well up, like blood at a new wound. This will require meditation, but he is determined to absorb the feeling, rather than deflect it.

 

***

 

It’s startling how not-awkward Jim feels in the debriefing with Spock afterwards. They’re in the conference room alone together for almost two hours, hashing over the Vulcan elders’ reactions to things: the ceremonial gestures Jim hadn’t understood, the nuances Spock had caught only through being a mad detective, stated brilliantly with Spock’s classic nonchalance. And there isn’t a whiff of sexual tension.

 

Well, maybe a whiff.

 

“They communicated through eye contact with one another that they were suitably impressed with your knowledge of the importance of the mountain,” Spock says.

 

“What does ‘suitably’ mean in this case?”

 

“Primarily that they undoubtedly understood that you had a superlative teacher. However, I believe your garment also made a positive impact.”

 

Jim had chosen to wear the loose, neutral-hued Vulcan clothing he’d procured for mountain-climbing and meditation, hoping that the elders would understand it as a sign of respect rather than cultural appropriation or pandering. He’s still wearing it now, and Spock is gesturing to it calmly. Whether this is a statement of fact or a statement of fact with a built-in compliment to his appearance, Jim can’t be sure.

 

If it’s a compliment, he’s about to stomp on it by following up with a sensitive question. Good job, Jim. But there’s nothing for it. “I know you’ve talked in the past about being shown a lack of respect by the elders because of your parentage. Did you sense any of that sentiment lingering?”

 

“Emphatically no,” Spock says, “although I was prepared for it. Had I sensed it, I would not have attended the final meeting. I believe my father has made it known that the elders gathered at the Katric Arc survived thanks to my efforts.”

 

“Oh right,” Jim says, and then tilts his head. “Hang on, are you… are you bragging yourself up?”

 

Spock looks affronted. “I have made factual statements about my accomplishments. This hardly amounts to _bragging_.”

 

“ _You are,_ ” Jim says. “Okay. Write me a report for the rest of the debrief. We’re done.”

 

“Captain,” Spock said, rising quickly from his seat, brow quirked in concern.

 

“No,” Jim says, “I’m sorry, self-confidence is incredibly hot on you, and we don’t really have anything more to go over, correct me if I’m wrong.”

 

“You are… not incorrect. The remainder of my notes are noncritical, and should be on file as a planet-assessment report in any case. I will consult with our cultural experts as well.”

 

“Okay, but for now – do you want to eat? Talk?”

 

“Both are logical avenues. Neither are particularly desirable at present.”

 

“Okay. Give me half an hour to shower and change?”

 

“Certainly. I will do the same. I will expect you in my quarters in thirty minutes.” Spock makes his way to the door as Jim gathers several PADDs of notes, but pauses before the door slides open and turns back to Jim.

 

“What is it?”

 

Spock does not meet his eyes directly. “Unless you are uncomfortable in these clothes, I see no need for you to change them.”

 

The door swishes shut behind him, and Jim sinks back into his chair and scrubs both hands across his face.

 

“I am so screwed,” he mutters.


	4. four.

 

four.

 

Twenty-seven minutes later, Jim is standing in the uncomfortably sterile lights of the shared restroom space between his quarters and Spock’s, staring at himself in the mirror. On the outside, he looks crisp and fresh and clean. His loose clothing has been sent through a refresh cycle, all of the sand and sweat of the day cleansed away, and it looks like morning. His hair is slightly damp and unstyled and smells of coconut and sun. He’s wearing a half-smile, without which he’s not certain he would recognize himself, this soft clean Jim.

 

He turns on one of the taps and cups both hands underneath the water, then leans down and presses his face into the half-filled bowl they form, rubs his fingertips across the planes of his skin once the water has splashed out, displaced.

 

_Face it, kid,_ Bones’s voice tells him dryly. _You’ve got no idea what you’re doing._ And he wants to answer, _I do too,_ but even in his imagination it sounds petulant. Imaginary Bones is right.

 

He dries his face with the hand towel and turns to the door that leads to Spock’s quarters.

 

***

 

Jim’s footsteps approach the door that separates them, then stop. Spock attempts to acknowledge and disregard the surge of frustration he feels, the somatic experience of that feeling—like a flooding of his stomach, stretching up toward his throat; like strangling a shout.

 

_But why must he be the one to take this initiative, when I know he is there and am equally capable?_ Spock asks himself, and moves toward the door. Before he reaches it, Jim knocks. Spock has opened the door before Jim’s hand has fallen back to his side.

 

“Hey,” Jim says.

 

“Good evening.”

 

Jim’s wearing the soft, durable linen-like cloth he’d been wearing on the mountain this afternoon – light and informal and simple in its cut. His posture is suboptimal – he is slouched somewhat, and if he had been wearing jeans or a jacket, Spock is sure that his hands would be shoved in his pockets, but he does not appear unhappy. He has washed with water instead of the sonics, and a small segment of his hair at the front is tousled, as if he had toweled it without looking in the mirror afterwards. After a brief moment of consideration, Spock reaches up to smooth that section of hair and finds in himself a feeling of lightness, like surprise, when Jim does not withdraw from the touch.

 

Spock ushers Jim in and shuts the door behind him. “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks. “Tea? Water?”

 

“No, I—” Jim clears his throat, turning around and linking their gazes again. “I’m not thirsty, but thank you.”

 

They stand there for another moment and Spock watches blood come into Jim’s face. The flush is not unattractive, particularly in this context. “I’m sorry,” Jim says, “I don’t mean to be weird, if I’m being weird. I mean, I’m usually pretty good at cutting past awkwardness. I just keep thinking I’m misunderstanding something, or that somehow this is going to all go wrong, so I’m feeling a bit less daring than my usual self.”

 

Spock crosses the room to his couch, and sits on its edge, keeping his feet flat on the ground and his posture well-aligned but attempting not to allow the stiffness that humans associate with lack of ease. “Allow me to assuage these concerns for you,” he says, and indicates the seat next to him with his eyes. Jim crosses and joins him. When _he_ sits, his knees are close together, and he leans forward to set his elbows against them, turning to look at Spock.

 

“You worry that you are misunderstanding something?” Spock says. “I will be clear, although I ask you to return in kind.” Jim nods tightly, his eyes clear on Spock’s face. “I am physically and emotionally attracted to you. I am interested in transitioning the manner of my relationship with you on these grounds, and mutually exploring our sexual and romantic compatibility. I do not intend for such a relationship to impede either our friendship or our positive working relationship.”

 

“Okay,” Jim says, and his voice is clear, but he clears his throat nonetheless. “I… I am also attracted to you. Physically – sexually – and emotionally and the other things you said. I want to try a relationship, to see how we work together that way. Um, an exclusive relationship, unless that isn’t what you want. I know my reputation isn’t exactly –”

 

“I believe I know you better than anyone who might be speaking to me of your reputation,” Spock cuts him off, and Jim grins. The muscles of his shoulders relax, and he ducks his head for a moment, starting to look more at ease.

 

“That’s true,” he says. “I’m just – I want to be clear from the start.”

 

“A sensible precaution. Fortunately we are aligned on this matter. You had another concern, I believe? That things would ‘go wrong’? If you can elaborate, I may be able to alleviate your worry on this score as well. We have both used language indicating that we understand that our future as a romantic unit is not assured – that we have not ascertained compatibility – so I conclude your concern stems from something other than this general ambiguity.”

 

“No. Well, yes, but I don’t think it’s something you can do anything about. I have… sort of a thing about everything going wrong the minute I start to get comfortable. In all kinds of ways. So, I mean, no one can tell me that the next disaster isn’t waiting around the corner. That’s just something I’ve got to deal with.”

 

“You are always free to share your fears with me,” Spock says.

 

“Okay,” Jim says, but doesn’t go further. “That’s… all, I guess. So – you’re right. Better now that we’ve both verbalized this, and we want the same thing, and the details we can work out as we go.”

 

“I would like to save _details_ for another time,” Spock says, and leans toward Jim, setting his fingertips on Jim’s cheek and allowing them to brush lightly down and across his lips. Jim shivers. “Are you amenable to that?”

 

“Oh yeah,” he whispers, and doesn’t wait, now, for Spock’s initiative. Now that the terms are clarified, their goals aligned, Jim presses forward with his hands and his mouth and his body at once. Their lips meet and part and meet again at a new angle, testing pressure and tension; at some future date Spock resolves to capture him for an evening and share only the slowest and most indulgent kisses, but now this is as it should be.

 

Jim’s hands are exploring the muscles of Spock’s chest and arms: slipping outward across the pectorals, clutching the bicep with his fingers firm and sure, tracing along the tricep from midpoint to elbow and back again. Spock keeps his touch nearer to Jim’s face, but tries to maintain a sense of deliberation in his action, not to allow himself to become the almost-predatory instinctive creature he knows himself capable of becoming when unseated by… this. Lust, or lust and something else. Lust and… whatever lust is when it is also Vulcan. The word escapes him. Unusual; acceptable at present. He uses the gentle pressure of his thumb and forefinger to massage the tense muscles along Jim’s neck, from shoulder to the base of his skull and back.

 

After a few moments, Jim draws back slightly and lifts his fingers to Spock’s face, framing it with palms flat against his cheeks. “Shut up,” he whispers.

 

“I am not—”

 

“You’re thinking pretty hard,” Jim cuts him off, his voice both gentle and humorous, “which is very you, and normally I wouldn’t tell you to do something un-you-like, but I don’t want you to miss out on right here. Trust me, right here is a really nice place to be.”

 

“There is nowhere I would prefer to be,” Spock says, and reinitiates their contact, pressing his lips against Jim’s in a kiss that feels almost chaste, with their hands on one another’s faces. And as they kiss, he tries to keep himself from launching on to a refutation of the sentiment he has just expressed, because the _nowhere_ is a statement of an absolute, something from which he would normally refrain. Regardless, it is either true or near enough, because there is little that arises in his mind to counter the thought. But he does allow two images into his mind, to be acknowledged: the house in Iowa, and his mother’s garden on Vulcan. And then he wonders if his elder counterpart and the James Kirk of that world had ever kissed in that garden.

 

And then Jim lets out a low growl and fresh blood flows to Spock’s groin so quickly it nearly leaves him lightheaded.

 

All at once, his nebulous wants become more concrete. He wants this body touching his, sweaty and naked sprawled out on his bedsheets. He wants to claim it with penetration, wants to thrust roughly but find Jim eager and ready for him. But then, at the same time, he knows he wants also to be claimed: laid out and vulnerable with Jim asserting himself. Wants to be torn apart with want, because he is certain that if Jim Kirk is anything in bed, he is a vicious tease. He wants to be held down with a strength to match his, lovingly mocked with a tongue on his ear, on his hip, his knee, his throat, everywhere but the places that most want it.

 

He wants all this so suddenly that he does not know what to do, how to move, how to behave. The image he sees of himself, in his imagination: this is not how he has been, _who_ he has been, in his past sexual experiences. And yet he is certain that he wants it.

 

He draws Jim off the couch and they stand and kiss for a moment, their arms wrapping around each other. Jim’s hands slide down to Spock’s buttocks, and he grasps at them, pulling Spock’s whole body up against his. He draws a sharp, involuntary breath as they collide. Jim holds him there for a moment, and there is no mistaking either of their erections, even through the layers of loose cloth.

 

“Your assertion is correct,” Spock whispers in Jim’s ear. “’Right here’ is superlative. I will gladly refocus my attentions.” He reaches down, finds the soft hem of Jim’s shirt, and tugs upwards.

 

“Holy shit,” Jim breathes. “Okay. Catching up.”

 

“Was this not your intention?”

 

“No,” he says, but before Spock can withdraw, “I – yes, it’s good, less clothes is good,” and the last word lifts into a soft whine as Spock’s hands skim between his tunic and the sleeveless undershirt beneath, lifting the first but not the second over Jim’s head and discarding it carelessly on the floor, then winding his fingers into the hem of the undershirt. He knows that he is mesmerized – he finds that his mouth is half-open in concentration, which happens so rarely he could count the instances, were he not otherwise distracted. “Oh, fuck, Spock,” Jim whispers, “I want your mouth back, been thinking about kissing you since, I don’t even—”

 

He lifts his attention back to Jim’s face, which is flushed, his mouth also hanging open as if he’s forgotten what to do with it, but he hasn’t – he slips forward again and frames Spock’s face between his hands and nips gently at his lower lip, then nuzzles up to seal their lips together. Their bodies move energetically, kissing at clashing angles; Jim’s hands slide into Spock’s hair and he feels such a pressure of emotion in his chest that he almost has to pull back. Jim’s fingers are cautious across the planes of his scalp, not mussing his hair but carding into it, slicing through it.

 

“When?” he whispers. It’s imprecise, but he won’t spare the breath on more words.

 

It occurs to him once he’s asked that he doesn’t know the answer for himself. How long has he wanted to do this? To dive into Jim’s body like a grotto pool until he hasn’t the breath for words? Jim’s attraction, or at least his _awareness_ of his attraction, had likely come earlier than his own; he is freer with his emotions, after all. What will he say if Jim admits he wanted this since the moment they met, since Spock stood and straightened his tunic with careful dignity in the academic hearing? In a spacious auditorium full of light and a sea of cadets, most of whom are dead now. And that room in a building that no longer exists, on a campus that no longer exists…

 

“Right now,” Jim breathes, hitching an extra inch of height to nuzzle against Spock’s cheek. “Doesn’t matter when.”

 

And he is correct, of course. The timeline is immaterial. There is only what is at hand. Vulcan philosophy, coming pure and honest from the beautiful, cheeky human in front of him. He should not have to be reminded of now. Now… now _is_ superlative.

 

Once he has centered himself, begun to truly inhabit the present, Spock finds the source of his distraction is his arousal, and his fear of his arousal, and there will be no more fear in this room. He presses his hips to Jim’s, circles an arm around him and walks him backwards until his legs are against the bed, and gives a gentle push. Jim sits. Spock climbs atop him, straddling his legs, and lifts his face up with his fingertips. Jim’s hands come to Spock’s hips for support; they grasp, they stroke, they slide. Spock offers a kiss that is soft but secure, pressure and wetness, and lets his hands drop away from Jim’s face and down toward the surface of the bed, then reaches again for his pants.

 

And there is a difference. Jim’s hands have moved so quickly Spock barely perceived it, although he’s drunk on lust right now; his senses are perhaps not to be trusted. Jim’s hands are clasping both of Spock’s with an unexpected strength, and his eyes are locked to Spock’s face as securely as their mouths were a moment ago – pressure, softness – and there is no anger, no regret or sadness, so the fear does not return, but Jim’s lips part and he laughs through a smile.

 

“You,” he whispers, “are so eager, and I… wasn’t expecting that. And it makes me incredibly hard—” He releases Spock’s hands, but then takes one and guides it gently along its former trajectory, setting it against his erection to demonstrate the truth of his words. It is as he said—fully erect, likely almost painfully so, and Spock takes advantage of the proximity to let his fingers trail up the shaft. Then, when Jim responds positively with a smooth inhalation and a flutter of his eyelids, he lets his fingers grasp through the layers of fabric and slides his thumb across the head. Smooth inhalation gives way to a shuddery gasp, and Jim is rendered dumb for a moment, half-fallen back to rest on one elbow in the already-tangling bedclothes. Spock slips his hand back into Jim’s grasp, and the fingers intertwine tightly around his own.

 

“But?” he asks, and he makes sure to inject the same softness into his gaze as Jim had a moment before. Still, Jim looks embarrassed – beyond just the redness in his cheeks – and Spock brushes his thumb against Jim’s cheekbone. This must be safe; there must be no fear.

 

“I’m so used to jumping into bed,” Jim whispers, and sits up, cradling Spock’s hips again and looking up at him. He looks like a figure from a painting, with his hair a halo around him and his cheeks flushed and so many things in his eyes. “It’s easy for me. I don’t have any hangups about my body, and I _like_ sex, so I just…” He exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s laughing, and ducks his head for a moment. “What I’ve never done,” he says, and lifts his head again, meeting Spock’s eyes with such a sharpness in them that it’s almost triumphal, “is take things slow.” He seals that word with a kiss to match it, languorous and lush, and Spock can’t decide if he should close his eyes or keep them open but he’s closed them without intention. Jim’s hands start at his shoulders and slip down both arms, pushing against the muscle; he slides up so that they’re both kneeling on the bed, face to face, and wraps his arms around Spock’s waist and then tucks their heads together. They hold that way for several moments, and then Jim murmurs, “I understand now why people want that. I didn’t understand before. If we… we could _savor_ this.”

 

Then he pulls back, his liquid eyes serious and strong. “But that’s not just my decision to make. If you don’t want to try the slow road, we can rewind and – and pants off, and whatever you had planned for me in that moment. Because I’m willing. I don’t want you to think I’m not… _ready_ , or something. But I just thought… it might be worth a try.”

 

Spock answers by pulling Jim back into the embrace: both of them kneeling on the bed, their arms tucked around one another, their heads on each other’s shoulders, and then lifts back for a slow kiss of his own. With the kiss, he says: _I acknowledge you._ He says, _I, too, understand._ He says, _This is not like any other._

 

After the kiss, he says, “Yes, Jim. I accept your proposition. If it is agreeable, I shall leave the terms to you: I will accept as much as you are willing to give, whenever you wish to give it.”

 

And what Jim wishes to give first is a smile like a mountain in the sun, luminous and lasting. He says, “Thank you,” softly, and Spock can see without touching how deeply Jim means it.

 

He lifts a hand to Jim’s face, cupping a cheek, and Jim turns his face into it and presses a kiss on the meaty flesh of his palm, and Spock answers, “You are most welcome,” and it is deeply true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am basically the worst. I'm so sorry for the long wait; thank you for the nudges! I think we're back on track here. I'm seeing Beyond tonight and that will kick my brain even more into gear than it already has been.
> 
> Truth is, I just wrote slow burn for so long that once the fire lit I was like SHIT YOU GUYS THERE'S A FIRE and didn't know what to do with it for a while. But it's better now.
> 
> (Also... I'm not going to talk about Anton Yelchin right now, but ugh, you guys, my heart.)


	5. five.

Jim had been the one to suggest they keep things quiet, but within moments of returning to his own quarters, he's second-guessing himself. He feels as if he's accomplished something, and he wants to tell absolutely everyone. The feeling is disconcerting. He's never been one to kiss and tell. Okay, no, he has, but that was always different.

He wants affirmation. That's something that Spock has told him is okay, that he shouldn't be ashamed of, but right now he wants it so much it hurts. He wants someone to congratulate him, and ultimately, even if he hadn't asked Spock that they keep this private, he's not sure who he would go to for congratulations right now. Bones practically wrings his hands anytime Jim mentions Spock; he would administer gentle warnings and slightly less gentle xenophobic remarks, which never help anything and certainly wouldn’t be the ringing endorsement Jim is looking for right now. He could never go to Nyota with this, although he knows she probably would - will - be happy for them - but it would feel like boasting. And Sulu would understand, but he wouldn't know what to say, or at least the imaginary construct of Sulu in Jim’s imagination wouldn’t.

Pike might have congratulated him, although Jim wouldn't have told him either, but he'd probably have figured it out on his own. He'd have told Jim not to fuck this up, wryly, without malice.

So Jim opens his console, types "DON'T FUCK THIS UP" in his calendar reminders, and sets it to 0600. It’s the best he can do for now.

***

Spock’s meditation that night is of questionable quality: perhaps predictably, he has been unable to separate his thoughts from his emotions for long enough to parse either. Eventually, he dresses in his blues and makes his way to the mess.

The ship is never completely silent. There are hums and chirps and whispers of air, always, if one listens for them. The noises remind Spock of summer in Riverside, the wind and crickets and the rustle of clothing in the next room and his own quiet breaths.

And the mess - the mess is never completely empty. Spock is grateful for this. How human it is, to find this functional space, no matter your hunger, to be comforted by its domesticity, to come together in the hours when those off-duty are expected to be sleeping, and to share the quiet space.

There are four crew members present when he arrives: one poring over a PADD, two at a small table in the far corner involved in quiet conversation, and the fourth looking at him with such wide eyes that one might have thought him a child caught doing something forbidden.

“Captain,” he says, and several admonishments enter his mind — Jim should be sleeping; Jim’s shift begins in only a few hours — but none are appropriate. After all, he, too, is here. Now.

“Spock,” Jim says, his expression relaxing. “This is a bit early even for you, isn’t it?”

“Affirmative,” Spock answers, moving to the counter and pouring himself hot water for tea. “Extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, when I am scheduled for Alpha shift, I begin my morning activities at 0600.”

“However…?” Jim prompts.

“Extenuating circumstances are in play in this instance.”

“Fair enough. I guess I’m not one to talk, since I beat you down here.”

Spock thinks about countering that ‘beat’ implies competition, which traditionally requires the awareness of any participants in said competition, but instead merely quirks an eyebrow. This elicits the desired response from Jim — a wide smile and a slightly sheepish duck of his head. Spock sits across the table from his captain and curls both hands around his mug. Jim does the same, still smiling.

“What do we have on docket today?” he asks.

“Your PADD has the same capability to access the ship’s schedule as does my own.”

“Right, but I know you, you don’t need to look at your PADD. You’ve already memorized your schedule for the day.”

He is correct, of course. “As you are doubtless aware, we are both assigned to Alpha shift on the bridge, where I anticipate we will be separately engaged in reviewing crew reports and responding to messages. Senior crew briefing at 1100 to discuss the feedback on the longitudinal studies and ensure adequate controls are set, after which Doctor M’Benga and I will assist Doctor McCoy with an analysis of Vulcan skin cells that he gathered while on-planet. Although unscheduled, I expect word from the admiralty around 1400 this afternoon regarding our next directive; presently we have a heading, but no mission or situational context; such a message would doubtless provide an avenue for research. Should such a message fail to arrive, I will spend the remainder of the shift writing a protocol for my department to perform monthly simulations of stress testing on the environmental control system.”

“Elaborate on the skin cells.”

“Doctor McCoy is concerned about the possibility that the atmosphere of New Vulcan may not fully protect against ultraviolet C. The habitable regions of the planet seem to be lacking in a certain type of microorganism that is considered expected to be present in any class-M planetary ecosystem. Although the elders and our own ecologists assured him that any more than a negligible presence of ultraviolet C would have been discovered by the initial habitability surveys, the Vulcan elders provided a wide array of samples of skin cells to allow him to test for damage or degradation.” Spock pauses. “I admit that I had not expected the elders to take such a step. Doctor McCoy’s hypothesis most certainly does not meet the rigorous standards of hypothesis development that were enforced by the Vulcan Science Academy.”

“They probably figured it couldn’t hurt,” Jim says gently.

“From the Vulcan perspective, I would have expected it to be considered a waste of resources. They spent several hours gathering and documenting the samples.”

“Are they worried about the missing microorganism?”

“It is _not_ missing,” Spock clarifies. “There is no law of evolution that would require such a creature to exist in a given environment. The connection exists in strong correlation only: class-M environments tend to have sixteen identifiable common eukaryote subtypes. For example, the Terran vole shares many basic characteristics with the Vulcan’s _hayalit_ , Capella IV’s gossamer mouse, the ambori of Eminiar—”

“Right, right, I know this part. Skip ahead.”

“As you have doubtless surmised, New Vulcan has fifteen of them, inasmuch as we can tell. The sixteenth type is a particularly hardy waterborne parasite with a lengthy spore phase. But evolution makes no promises. It may simply be that none of the evolutionary processes on the planet have resulted in such a creature.”

“Mmm. Okay. I have more questions, but I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t thought of. Let me know how that goes.”

Spock stores this without external comment, but he is struck by the certainty that this attitude is a new development. “Of course, Captain. I am certain Doctor McCoy will make a full report.” He sips his tea, which has cooled to a comfortable temperature. “What are your plans for the day?”

Jim picks up his PADD, obviously navigating to his calendar, and then flushes. “Uhh, I haven’t really scheduled it yet. I’ve got such a long to-do list, I sort of just tackle whatever feels most important. So yeah, probably paperwork this morning, the crew meeting at 11, finishing my recommendations for the water recycling tech, which honestly just consists of writing “yeah do it” in formal language. I have a one-on-one with Giotto after shift, we’re doing that once a week for now, and I’m also submitting a request to Starfleet to create a new position on Ops — head of inventory management. They’re going to want that in recommendation format too — I’ll have to set up some arbitrary guideline, _missions lasting more than one Terran year or spending more than three months at a time in deep space should have one crew member for each two hundred dedicated to inventory management_ , blah blah blah. But if we do get a mission brief today, and I hope you’re right on that, I’ll have a lot of reading to do.” He puts his PADD down, screen side down, his cheeks still light pink. “Am I missing anything?”

“Recreation,” Spock says.

“Well then,” Jim says, “how about a game of chess? My quarters, 2100?”

“Acceptable.”

***

Spock is right, of course — they get their mission briefing at 1440, and it’s not exactly what Jim had expected. Two weeks crossing dead space to reach a sparsely inhabited but long warp-capable planet that was flagged by a previous Starfleet crew as a potential source of tritanium ore. They’ll do the diplomacy song-and-dance, and if all goes well, spend a couple days mapping resources and gathering what intel they can about the surrounding region before moving on to a moon outpost in the next system, and then another planet of interest two light-years past it. In fact, the whole region has been surveyed before, albeit superficially — their job is just the follow-up runs. He almost tells Archer they don’t need the fluff, they’re _ready_ , but thinks that message would convey exactly the opposite. _No, I can be a good soldier,_ he tells himself. _Fall into step. Don’t ask questions._

It chafes.

Spock, sitting across from Jim and rolling Jim’s bishop between his fingers musingly, is not afraid to counter him. “Perhaps we can make good use of the time,” he says in response to Jim’s halfhearted complaints, and o _kay_ , yes, Jim has had that thought too today, more than once, but he didn’t want to be the one to say it, didn’t want to sound overeager, which is silly because isn’t _Jim himself_ the only reason Spock isn’t naked in his bed right now?

He decides to tease. “You’re right,” he says, straightening in his chair. “There’s a lot of work to be done. I need to cross train on all the ship’s systems, and I’m sure you can get a head start on your research projects.” Spock frowns slightly and tilts his head in acknowledgement, and Jim smirks and leans across the chess board to kiss him. Spock’s eyes flutter shut at the contact, and after a few seconds, Jim leans back. “It’s no fun to tease you if you just agree with the ridiculous things I’m saying, Spock.”

“Neither of the ideas you proposed were ridiculous, particularly in light of our agreement that the ship must come first,” Spock points out.

“Ridiculously obtuse, at least,” Jim says.

“Then you did understand my innuendo,” Spock says.

“I’ve read innuendo into everything you said today,” Jim says. “Even, like, ‘ _Systems performing within normal parameters,_ ’. I’ve just basically been thinking about you all day in ways unbefitting a senior officer. If I ever do read innuendo where you didn’t intend any, please don’t feel obligated to go along with me.”

“Rest assured I would not respond to such advances out of a sense of obligation.”

Jim feels his eyebrows doing funny things and tries to stop them. He has to remind himself that this is not a bad time for lust, precisely - he’s become so habituated to thinking of ice planets and crossing his legs to hide any stirrings of arousal and so on - but at the same time, maybe if he wants to take things slow he shouldn’t knock the chessboard over and straddle Spock’s lap and grind helplessly against him right now.

_And why again do I want to take things slow?_ he thinks, half-wild, but then answers himself more seriously than he would have thought himself capable at the moment: _Because I’m hoping not to have another chance at this. I’m hoping this is it. And I’d rather regret begin too careful than regret not being careful enough._

_Well fuck. Okay, Responsible Jim, you win._ So instead of knocking over the chessboard, he leans over again, stills Spock’s hands with his own folding over them, and nuzzles in for another kiss. Spock makes a soft sound that Jim interprets as want and satisfaction, and he echoes it, bundling them into his softness and slowness and care when he presses their lips together, shifting and moving and then, after a moment, opening his mouth enough for a gentle press of tongue, at which Spock’s hands twitch inside Jim’s grasp.

“So we’ve got a couple weeks to practice that,” Jim murmurs, letting his hands slip away. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.” He leans back into his chair and tries to refocus on the board, but now his ambition has migrated. Now all of his ideas involve ways to end the game quickly, none of which result in winning when Spock is the opponent. He lifts his eyes and finds Spock twirling his bishop again.

“I’ve forgotten whose turn it is,” he says.

“Shall I remind you?” Spock asks. “Or…” He pauses. When he continues his alternative is soft, but sensible instead of sensual. “Shall we retire? I believe we are both operating on fewer hours of sleep than we prefer.”

“Ah, and you want to win when I can’t blame it on being sleepy,” Jim says. “Yeah, that’s the better idea, I’m sure. Take it back up tomorrow night?” He stands, and Spock follows suit, folding his hands behind his back in that most Spocklike way. Jim starts tidying, leaving the board as it is but gathering their cups and his PADDs and sliding in the chairs and straightening their backs.

“The night following, perhaps,” Spock says. “Tomorrow I anticipate I will be occupied in the labs until 2300 at earliest.”

_I’ll bring him a thermos of tea,_ Jim thinks, _of Spock’s Blend 2.0, or something new,_ and is pleased with himself for a moment before realizing that’s probably not the sort of thing captains do for their first officers, and therefore that he shouldn’t do it publicly. People will talk. At best, he can have a mug waiting when Spock gets back.

“Okay,” he says, and although his first instinct was disappointment, it actually is okay. “That works out, I didn’t finish the inventory management position proposal today — decided I wanted to do the actual research rather than just throwing numbers together — so that’ll probably take the better part of the evening anyway.”

“Very good, Jim.” Spock pauses, and Jim looks back around at him and lets a smile curl on his face with only the slightest sliver of self-consciousness. Once he’s looking, he can’t help himself — in the familiar frame of Spock’s body, the tilt of his head, the turn of his eyes, he can see hints that Spock is just as lost as he is in navigating this new space between them. He steps across the space between them and tucks his head against Spock’s shoulder, pressing his lips into his uniform shirt, and feels the slight uncoiling of both of their bodies at the relief of contact. Spock places a hand on Jim’s elbow as if bolstering him.

“It is very good,” Jim says, not bothering to lift his head away from the fabric. “Okay. I’ll see you on shift tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“And you,” Spock says, and leaves.

***

Spock finds almost immediately that the closer he grows to the Captain on their personal time, the more distance he finds them both cultivating in public. Jim is careful not to touch — too careful; he has never been conscious of personal-space boundaries before; he has always been clapping hands on shoulders and accidentally nudging feet under the table as his own bounce and smiling — smiling in a way that seems to penetrate Spock’s personal space — this is illogical but it is so; how had he ever denied to himself that he loved Jim?

Jim is not the only one initiating distance, however. Spock spends more time in the labs, and when he is on the bridge, he is conscious that his demeanor is — Nyota would say _cooler_ , although the association between intimacy and temperature has never felt entirely right to Spock. Temperature is _measurable_. Still, he maintains a physical distance and keeps his conversations professional and to the point.

And their sixth day into the two weeks of travel, Nyota _does_ say “cooler”, and much more. She meets him that evening once they are both off-shift, encountering him in the mess hall in a way he would have thought by chance if not for her determination to sit with him at an out-of-the-way table.

“If you’re trying to be circumspect,” she says as soon as they’re both sitting, digging her fork into a bowl whose contents are indistinguishable to Spock, “it’s not working.”

“I am not certain that I take your meaning,” Spock says.

“I’m on comms, okay,” Nyota says. “I don’t ever spy on crew members’ personal messages, but there are a few channels for public communications, and one of them has basically turned into a gossip line.”

“As head of communications, I would have expected you to shut down such a channel.” He says this because it feels like the thing he should say, but in truth Spock is unable to follow the things she has said, or to predict the avenue of their conclusion. It is most unsettling.

“The crew would just create another. Besides, it’s not active enough to be a major distraction from their work. It’s good for morale. Some of the newest crew members are using it to arrange social gatherings amongst themselves, and as long as Gerry and I have an eye on it, I don’t see why it should be a problem. Besides, it helps me keep up with what the crew’s thinking about, which is what I’m here to talk to you about.”

Spock quirks a brow at her.

“The junior crew in particular have noticed that you and Jim are barely talking to each other. They think there’s something you aren’t telling us about the upcoming mission, but I was on the call with the Admiral, I know it’s a milk run. But I’ve been on the bridge too, and sometimes I half-expect to see icicles growing on the panels. _Don’t_ quip at me about the environmental controls malfunctioning.”

Spock does not.

“Whatever’s going on, you’ve got to find a way to make it invisible. Or go public, if it’s that sort of a going-on, and then you don’t have to worry about it anymore. I can’t imagine the Admiral wouldn’t sign off. Anyway, that’s not my business. Getting the crew to stop gossiping — well, that’s not _exactly_ my business either, but you could make a case for it.”

“The communications officers’ duties do not include managing gossip,” Spock says.

“Don’t they, though?” she asks, and takes another bite of her — Spock decides it is best termed a _stew_. He stares at her as she chews.

“I will inform the captain that a perceived shift in our behavior has affected morale.”

“Perceived, my ass. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but it’s not like you to pretend the answer is ‘nothing’.”

“I pretend no such thing. But the crew would be wise not to read overmuch into the interpersonal relationships of others aboard. Particularly when one of the parties is a species with which they are little familiar.” Nyota looks stricken, and he softens; sets a hand on hers. “I did not intend for that statement and its implications to apply to you, Nyota.”

“When it’s your highest-ranking officers, it’s hard not to read into their behavior. Your life may depend on it.”

“True. I am sorry to have been a source of distress for the crew. I will meditate on how best to resolve this.”

“If I could make a recommendation?” Nyota asks, and Spock nods, relieved that she has offered this. “Just do something public, if you can. And friendly — noncompetitive, I should say. Attend a crew gathering, have dinner together. Something of that sort. And…” she hesitates. “Do you want to pass this on to Jim, or should I?”

“I shall,” Spock says, and sees something in the tightness of her shoulders release. She is relieved.

***

Jim, of course, is horrified. “I didn’t think it was that bad!” he said, his voice unnecessarily hushed, somewhere between a whine and a wail. Spock had found the message board of which Nyota had spoken, and had chosen to share the news in that way rather than cite their communications officer, which he thinks Jim might find a humiliation too far on the professional front. Jim continues to talk, pacing behind Spock’s chair as Spock sits at his console, the message board on display. “I mean, I knew it was a little weird, of course, but I thought that was just us. I didn’t think anyone else would notice. I mean, why are they paying so much attention to our personal space norms, anyway?”

“We are their superior officers. It should not surprise us that they pay us close attention.”

“But this close?” Jim says, and flops onto Spock’s sofa. “I don’t know. I guess maybe I didn’t realized how obvious it would be if we… I don’t know. Whatever it is we’ve been doing. But it has been both of us, right? This wasn’t just me being weird?”

“Both of us have been behaving differently towards one another in public. I shared your belief that it would go unnoticed, or at least unremarked-upon.”

“But so we’d both made this decision. To back off when we were on shift.” Spock acknowledges the statement with a slight nod, and Jim throws his head back against the cushions. “I just — I was worried about getting distracted on shift. I thought, okay, now that we’re, like, actually making time to be close to one another in the evenings, I should just focus on the ship when I’m on shift and try to get more done so that the evenings could be ours. And I thought it was working, too.”

“Your efficiency had improved thirteen percent,” Spock says solemnly, and after a moment admits, “and my own by at least four percent.”

Jim looks up again, bemused. “Was I really spending thirteen percent of my time gawking at you before this?”

“Obviously not. However, it has been the case that your attention has been less prone to wandering this week, and you have been proactive about managing reports and other duties that tend to infringe upon your evenings.” Spock stands from his chair and settles beside Jim on the sofa. “The effort has not gone unnoticed. But it seems the crew prefers you ‘a little absent-minded’.”

“Next time we look up ship’s gossip about ourselves, can I have you anonymize it first?” Jim asks, twining his fingers into Spock’s. “I’ve decided I’d rather not know who thinks I’m a dreamboat and who thinks I’m a man-child.”

“I will take it into consideration,” Spock says. “Meanwhile, am I accurate in concluding that we are resolved to revert to our previous patterns of public behavior?”

“Yeah,” Jim says. “I’m okay with looking at your face a little more often. And maybe I can still keep a little bit of that thirteen percent efficiency. You’ll have to let me know how I’m doing on that.”

“Not only eye contact, Jim,” Spock says. “Several crew members have made note of the absence of your touch.”

“So I’ll have to touch you again, hm?” Jim murmurs, and slides closer on the couch, then pushes himself up onto his knees and straddles Spock’s lap. His hands come up, his thumbs tracing outwards along Spock’s jaw as he pushes in for a kiss, his head tilted so that their faces, noses, cheeks do not touch until their lips have touched, and it is a slow sliding into one another, slotting together in a way that belongs.

“Yes,” Spock says, and is aware his voice has gone dark and husky. His eyes have closed; he opens them again to look into Jim’s face. He sets his hands on Jim’s thighs as if to balance them. Or to anchor them. _Here. Stay here._

“I don’t mind having to touch you,” Jim whispers. “I like it.”

“Yes,” Spock says, and he means, _The feeling is mutual,_ but he knows that Jim understands that. He slides his hands to Jim’s waist and Jim accepts the invitation for another kiss, pressing their lips together like it’s what he’s made for, leaning his body in until his weight is pinning Spock down, and Spock does not know, now, if he is trapped or if he could maneuver his way out if he wished. He does not wish. This is Jim atop a mountain, as it is in his meditation — Jim high and free.

“Maybe,” Jim says, conspiratorial, “we could fight.” He says it in a tone that implies a private joke, but Spock is pulled out of the reverie of the body by the words, feeling slow. After a moment spent determining that he is not forgetting a reference to something he ought to know, he raises a brow, indicating _question — elaboration — intrigue_. Jim shifts back slightly, swoops in for another kiss, and grins.

“So,” he says, “if we just go back to normal, what happens then? The crew will notice, sure, but they’re not going to forget the weirdness. So instead of just hopping back to normal, what if we play into their narrative and make the end of our disagreement just public enough to give them a sense of resolution?”

“Playacting, in a sense.”

“Absolutely. Bones and Nyota might see through it, maybe Sulu, but they won’t know what’s actually going on. And as long as we pick a good topic for the argument, we should be able to make it convincing. Or,” Jim says, looking thoughtful in the sort of way that always sparks slight alarm in the more reactive parts of Spock’s mind, “do we have anything we need to actually fight about? I know you aren’t a fan of lying, maybe we could make it easier on ourselves by having a real fight. Get it out of the way. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“Your choice of metaphor is unsettling.”

“Well? What do we have to fight about?”

“Your insistence on joining away missions,” Spock suggests. Jim wrinkles his nose.

“Okay, flaw in the have-a-real-fight plan,” he says. “It would have to be something we could resolve. I’m not about to concede the landing-party fight in front of the crew, and neither are you.”

“What if,” Spock says, “instead of ending our feud with a verbal confrontation, we do so with a physical one? A sparring match, in the gymnasium.”

“It would have to be public,” Jim says, and snaps his fingers. “Got it. We find a group who have the space reserved and ask them to move it. Someone will gossip, they’ll check the schedule, and it’ll say something curt like ‘Kirk v Spock’.”

“Overdramatic,” Spock says, “but effective. The boldest, perhaps, will find excuses to be present, but there will also be an access issue on that day that will cause all terminals to be able to view live security footage from public spaces.”

“Will there now?”

“One of us will have to have words with Engineering and Security afterwards.”

“Maybe both of us.”

“Indeed, as our outrage will be mutual, it is only logical that we should express it together.”

***

Within twelve hours, Bones has stalked into his ready room, standing with his arms crossed until Jim looks up from his paperwork and raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Don’t you yes-doctor me, Jim, what’s this I hear about you starting a cage-fighting outlet?”

“I’m what now?”

“As your doctor, I encourage participation in sports, but recreational bodily harm is not what I had in mind for you.”

“I’m not _starting_ anything,” Jim says, “I’m just having a sparring match. One-time thing. No outlets. Also no cage. And no bodily harm, for that matter - we’re professionals; we both know how and where to hit without doing any major damage.”

“I do not like the word ‘major’ in that sentence,” Bones says.

“Look, all I mean is, it’s not something for you to worry about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Look, if you trust us that little, send one of the nurses to watch. Or come down yourself, I guess.”

“I don’t have the time to watch you get your ass handed to you,” Bones grumbles.

“Good thing I’m not going to lose, then,” Jim says, and ushers the good doctor out with his winningest smile. This is going to be _fun_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the first couple chapters are still the smoldering slow burn I've been tormenting you with for parts 1-3, but THE FIRE IS BUILDING and then we will have lots and lots and LOTS of smut.


End file.
